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Realistically, Quinn knows this is a distraction. He knows that the longer he lets this go on, the worse it’s going to get. He knows that the first crack in the ice was saying yes to moving into Kirill’s building, and that the rift has only spread with every subsequent night out—dinner and movies, and long walks at night that would get them both in trouble with the health and fitness reps if they heard about it.
It’s just that, until he falls through, Quinn doesn’t want it to stop.
“You have that look again,” Kirill says, nudging Quinn’s foot under the table. “Everything okay?”
Kirill is freshly showered, and his hair is drying in loose curls that Quinn would find unremarkable on anyone else. He smiles and nods. “Yeah, everything is fine. Big day tomorrow.”
Kirill grunts in agreement and goes back to his pasta.
Among the list of things that Quinn has quickly grown to love about spending time with Kirill, the way that Kirill accepts things at face value is number one. Quinn never has to justify himself to Kirill. Maybe it’s a Russian thing, but Kirill never digs any deeper with Quinn. If Quinn says he’s not upset, then Kirill believes him. If Quinn says he needs some time to himself, then Kirill gives it to him. If Quinn wants to spend three hours watching mindless general knowledge trivia videos on Youtube, Kirill usually finds some other way to entertain himself, but lets Quinn do as he pleases.
It feels a lot like being trusted.
“I think it will be okay tomorrow,” Kirill says after silence has stretched on for a few mouthfuls. Quinn jostles his mouth into another smile. He’s not so sure.
Playing Edmonton hadn’t felt difficult necessarily, but it was still a game played. Plus Quinn wasn’t sure he’d fully recovered from the 32 minutes he’d just played two days earlier. It didn’t help that the team they were challenging on the back half of the back-to-back happened to be the best in the league. It also didn’t help that there were thousands of people hoping the Wild would lose, just so they could prove that Quinn wasn’t a value add to the team, that Quinn had “betrayed” Vancouver for nothing.
“No one is expecting us to win.” Quinn doesn’t know where that came from, he hadn’t been planning on saying anything at all. Once the words leave his mouth, he can’t take them back, especially not once Kirill has his eyes turned on him, all round and soft. Kirill might not press Quinn, but when Quinn opens a door like that, Kirill always welcomes himself inside.
“Is the nature of game. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose,” Kirill says simply. He curls his socked foot around Quinn’s ankle, drags his leg closer under the table. A habit of Kirill’s is seeking as much physical contact as possible when he’s worried he doesn’t have the right words to comfort someone or explain himself. “If we lose, we lose as team. It will still be okay.”
From his first day with the Wild, no one on the team had let Quinn feel solely responsible for anything. Faber tailed him like a puppy on the ice during their first morning skate, unable to contain his excitement that Quinn was there and applying the kind of pressure a loved one does when they hug you after not seeing you for a very long time. Spurgeon pulled him aside to talk at length, part of which was an apology for not being the one to pick Quinn up from the airport, and majority of which was making sure Quinn had a full run down of how the team functioned and how he would best be able to fit in.
Then there was Kirill. Kirill hadn’t been able to contain his smile when it was his turn to talk to Quinn—a long hug and longer string of excitement in that accented English. He wrestled Quinn’s phone out of his hand and traded numbers with him, and really gave Quinn no choice in the matter of their soon to be incredible friendship. Between all of those interactions, Quinn had let himself forget the underlying guilt that was gnawing at him, and accepted that this had been the right decision, that things would be better in Minnesota.
Quinn sighs, figuring that since he’s already started this, he might as well commit. “It would be nice to win, though. Keep winning, I mean.”
“We have to lose eventually,” Kirill replies. In the locker room, he would never say something like that, none of them would. But this is him being honest, him reading between the lines, him somehow knowing Quinn this well when they’ve only really known each other for a week. “People will say what they are going to say. It doesn’t mean we made mistake taking you, it doesn’t mean you are bad for leaving. Losing is okay, just makes winning feel even better.”
This time Quinn’s smile feels more real. “Yeah, I guess so.”
They clear their plates away together, even though last time Kirill cleaned up alone. Quinn elbows him out of the way of the dishwasher, Kirill laughs and holds his hands up in surrender. Quinn thinks that it shouldn’t be this easy, he’s never clicked with someone so instantaneously, it should be scary… And yet, he makes a home for himself crashing down next to Kirill on his couch and the thoughts float right out of his head.
“You don’t stay too late tonight?” Kirill asks, because he’s trying to decide what to put on and he doesn’t want to start a movie if Quinn is planning on ducking out shortly. Quinn knows that he should be ducking out shortly. It’d be better if he went back to his own apartment, if he studied the game highlights from tonight, did some stretches, and went the fuck to sleep.
Quinn just does not always do what he should do.
“I could stay for a movie,” Quinn says decisively.
It’s clearly the right answer, because Kirill rewards him with a grin and some elbow nudges, then he clicks play on whatever he was currently hovering over. Quinn doesn’t usually care about what gets put on the tv, and Kirill has a pretty stringent list of movies he’s trying to work his way through to get aligned with pop culture.
Quinn doesn’t manage to make it far into the movie before the exhaustion of the day wins out and his blinks turn into elongated bouts of “resting his eyes.” He falls asleep before he can even figure out the name of the movie’s protagonist.
—
They lose to Colorado pretty spectacularly. On home ice, too.
Quinn tries to tamper his disappointment by repeatedly thinking no one expected them to win. Even though he knows that not too long ago, Minnesota had beat Colorado, and his addition to the team should have only made that easier.
He can imagine what people are saying online already. The old lineup managed it, so clearly the new one wasn’t any good. Clearly Quinn wasn’t any good.
The mood in the locker room is stagnant. Spurgeon tries to offer some words of encouragement: they played hard the night before, they’ll learn from their mistakes and do better next time. The response is tepid. Quinn tries not to meet anyone’s eyes, even when he’s getting consolation pats from Faber and Jeeks. Especially when Kirill approaches him.
“We’ll have dinner tonight,” Kirill says. It’s a personal invitation. Quinn knows some of the team have already dispersed for the night, and there aren’t plans for a group outing.
Quinn nods his agreement even though Kirill hadn’t really been asking.
—
Kirill shows up outside Quinn’s door with takeout, already in his pajamas, and in a much better mood than Quinn if the way he was smiling through the peephole was any indication.
“This is Boldy’s favorite, from two blocks away,” Kirill explains as he hustles into Quinn’s apartment. Kirill’s idea to help Quinn assimilate on the team was to have him try everyone’s favorite local restaurants and share his thoughts in the group chat.
“Didn’t he say he wanted to go with me?” Quinn asks, remembering that a few of the guys had said it would only help Quinn assimilate if they took him to their favorite spot.
“I asked. He said he would make exception because he has other plans tonight. We compromised, I ordered his second favorite food.”
And it’s simple like that. Kirill makes everything so simple.
Quinn isn’t as worried about the furniture, so they eat on the couch. Quinn puts the game highlights on, and they pick apart the replays together. It doesn’t make up for losing, but it feels better to talk through their shortcomings in a smaller pairing, no judgement, and emotions already wrung out. At one point, Kirill points out an opening that Quinn had missed in the moment, and Quinn doesn’t immediately feel the need to argue or defend the decision he’d made to slingshot the puck.
Quinn is about to replay the video again when Kirill puts his hand over Quinn’s on the remote to stop him. “Is enough, I think.”
Quinn’s mouth goes to form a disagreement that subsequently loses its shape when Kirill squeezes his hand, then slips the remote out of it entirely.
“Enough,” Kirill repeats. “Game outcome does not change from rewatching.”
“I just wanted to check–”
Kirill shakes his head. “No more checking. Coach will review whole thing with us tomorrow. Don’t try to do his job for him.”
“But what if he asks for specifics on the plays?”
Kirill huffs a laugh and pushes Quinn’s shoulder hard enough to Quinn topples sideways on the couch and has to correct himself. “Coach will not ask that. He will show us himself and then ask our opinions. Is not pop quiz.”
Quinn feels very strongly that everything to do with hockey is a pop quiz. Especially when the only real difference between the Minnesota game in November and the one they just played was him. It’s hard not to feel like it’s somehow cosmically his fault, if not physically. It’s hard to feel like he deserved to stop picking apart what he could have done better.
“Quinn,” Kirill says softly. Quinn hums non-committally, staring down at where their hands are still overlapped.
“Quinn,” Kirill repeats. The hand he has on top of Quinn’s moves. Quinn watches it come closer to his face, and then Kirill traps Quinn’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and tugs his head up. Quinn goes, because he’s finding it very easy to follow along with whatever Kirill wants.
“Is not your fault,” Kirill says slowly, like there’s a possibility Quinn could misunderstand the words. “You are still thinking like captain, maybe. But not your fault, so not just your responsibility to fix.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Uh-uh,” Kirill stops him with a light squeeze to his jaw. Quinn forgets about everything else that’s plaguing him in favor of a surge of heat running through him, stopping in a simmer low in his stomach. “You only say what I say, okay? Is not my fault.”
Quinn has a hard time focusing on the request, more preoccupied with stymying a second wave of what can only be desire at the way Kirill holds him firm and tells him what to do. This is the distraction. This is what Quinn had known was lingering beneath the surface of all of their interactions. Kirill probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, drawing Quinn to him like this. Quinn thinks he should probably be feeling some guilt for this too, taking advantage of Kirill’s kindness, his excitement over his new teammate.
Seemingly not pleased with his pause, Kirill gently shakes Quinn’s head in his hand.
“It’s not my fault,” Quinn repeats dutifully, a monumental feat considering how dry his mouth suddenly is.
Kirill’s smile is a nice reward. Quinn expects him to drop his hand, but he doesn’t. “And say: I am so lucky to get to be on team with Kirill.”
Quinn laughs, but keeps his mouth shut. If he doesn’t indulge Kirill, maybe this lingering feeling of want will go away. Maybe he can find a good out, send Kirill home before he embarrasses himself completely.
“Oh? You do not agree? You’re not lucky to play with me?” Kirill chides him. “Say it, Quinn Hughes, say you’re so happy to be my teammate!”
Quinn’s answering smile is all teeth. He can’t help it. Even on a night like this, Kirill’s energy is infectious. Still, Quinn doesn’t relent. Kirill gets closer to Quinn’s space, faking a hard grimace and squeezing his fingers together on Quinn’s face so that his lips pout outwards.
“Kirill I am so lucky to be your teammate,” Kirill says in a slightly higher voice as he squeezes his fingers in tandem with the words, turning Quinn into a puppet. “You are reason I came to Minny. I want to win cup with you.”
Kirill grins triumphantly as his own joke, searching Quinn’s eyes to find the humor there, too. Quinn feels his heart drop, because Kirill is so close that Quinn can smell the traces of his shampoo, and feel the heat radiating off of his body. Quinn’s eyes don’t have anything in them but want. He’s sure of it. Made even more unmistakable when they drop to look at Kirill’s mouth, drawn in by the curve of that pretty, self-satisfied smile.
Kirill’s tongue pokes out to wet his bottom lip. Quinn’s eyes go back to Kirill’s. It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room, or maybe that Quinn forgot how to breathe. Kirill is still for a beat, then two, and then something shifts in his expression like he’s made a decision.
And then he kisses Quinn.
As far as kisses go, it’s pretty tame, close lipped and soft, a test more than anything. Quinn still makes a noise like he’s been wounded, exactly the kind of embarrassment he was hoping to avoid.
“Was that—” Kirill goes to pull away, and Quinn decides that since he’s already gotten this far, he might as well commit. He gets his hands around the back of Kirill’s neck, fingers twisting into his curls and hauling him back in.
This kiss is better, Kirill’s hand moves from Quinn’s chin to cup his jaw. It’s still close-mouthed until Quinn parts his lips to run his tongue along the bottom of Kirill’s lips, where Kirill’s tongue had been just a moment earlier, seeking a taste, seeking more.
Kirill opens for him with a soft groan that Quinn takes in his mouth greedily. And this truly is greedy—his hands exploring Kirill’s body over his shirt, and his tongue in Kirill’s mouth. It’s good it happened like this, so Quinn didn’t have time to think about the ramifications. Now, all he has to think about is Kirill’s big hands and how they feel teasing up under Quinn’s shirt.
“So, this is how I can make you feel better?” Kirill teases, eyes gleaming when he pulls away to catch his breath. Quinn’s face goes hot, and he doesn’t get a chance to even try to defend himself before Kirill comes back in, kissing his mouth once more before diverting his attention to Quinn’s jaw and dotting kissing down the slope of it to his neck.
Quinn falls backwards and pulls Kirill on top of him. Kirill presses a deep chuckle against the side of his throat and then teases the skin between his teeth. It’s enough to stir another embarrassing noise out of Quinn, followed by a breathy and not-at-all-threatening: “Careful.”
“Is okay, we will say you got hit by puck,” Kirill says. The heat of Kirill’s mouth on him is enough to make Quinn accept that and move on. Anyways, Kirill doesn’t stay on that spot for long.
His hand sneaks up under Quinn’s shirt, and Quinn chokes on a breath as Kirill leaves a trail of goosebumps every he touches; up over Quinn’s flanks, the ridges of his abs, a bold squeeze on his left pec.
“Off?” Kirill asks, his free hand tugging at the hem of Quinn’s shirt. Quinn nods frantically, helping Kirill wrestle it off. Kirill settles himself between Quinn’s legs after that, staring down at him like the cat who got the cream.
“Feeling better?” He asks, and Quinn can only answer with more nodding. “Maybe now you will agree that you are lucky to be on team with me.” Quin might have been able to snark something back if Kirill didn’t immediately duck his head down to suck on Quinn’s nipple. Kirill’s mouth on him is hot and wet and just about the best thing Quinn has felt in ages.
Kirill moves south, kissing, sucking, licking. When he dips his tongue into Quinn’s belly button, Quinn’s dick twitches, and he bites back a whine.
“Can I suck you?” Kirill asks. He cups Quiin through his sweats, seemingly done with pretending that Quinn hasn’t been steadily getting harder as he played with him.
“Y-yeah. Please,” Quinn breathes out. He flushes to his chest at the way Kirill quirks his eyebrow in response.
“Please…” Kirill repeats, wrestling Quinn out of his pants and boxers. “I like that.”
Quinn’s cock rests hard and heavy against his stomach, the slit beading with precum, and Quinn has to squeeze his eyes shut because he shouldn’t be that hard from making out and some teasing.
Kirill doesn’t seem to mind. He licks up the underside of Quinn’s cock and swirls his tongue around the tip greedily once he gets to it. Quinn’s body clenches to his toes and he becomes aware that this is not going to be a long lasting experience.
What Kirill might lack in technique, he makes up for in enthusiasm. Quinn has no idea if this is Kirill’s first time giving head, but it’s a good enough effort from the way Kirill’s hand wraps around him to make up for what he can’t get in his mouth. He sets a good pace that has Quinn hot all over and squirming under him. Quinn’s hand is back in Kirill’s hair, seeking purchase.
Kirill makes these hot little sounds, kind of like encouraging hums, that are making Quinn go insane.
“Kirill, Kirill,” Quinn pants when he feels a familiar buzz pooling low in his stomach, a deeper heat dripping through his lower body. “Stop, stop, I’m—” He tries to push Kirill off, but Kirill bats his hand away, looking up at Quinn sternly, through the tears that are forming in his gorgeous brown eyes.
Quinn barely gets a second to catalogue that mental image before Kirill sinks deeper, and the tip of Quinn’s dick is squeezed in the back of Kirill’s throat. Quinn can’t stop himself from coming, throwing his head back, hips kicking up inadvertently as he moans out aborted attempts at Kirill’s name.
Kirill sucks and strokes him through it, until Quinn is completely boneless and starts twitching with overstimulation. Then Kirill pulls off, but his hands stay on Quinn’s body, gently petting down the outside of his thighs.
Quinn’s eyes stay squeezed shut until his breath comes back to him and then he blinks to look at Kirill again. Kirill is smiling at home, a little sweet for how debauched he looks with his hair a mess and his mouth red and swollen.
“Jesus,” Quinn breathes.
Kirill chuckles, seemingly pleased enough with that response to deem Quinn’s brain back online and functioning. Together they wrestle Quinn back into his clothes. This is accomplished a bit clumsily, because Quinn can’t stop himself from stealing a kiss or two when Kirill is close enough.
“Now will you say?” Kirill asks later, at the door, after Quinn returned the favor with a hand job and his tongue in Kirill’s ear.
Quinn cocks his head in question.
“You are lucky to have Kirill as a teammate. I take such good care of you, yes?”
Quinn laughs, pushing Kirill into the hallway, in the general direction of his own apartment door. “Maybe next time.”
—
Two days later they lose to Nashville. Kirill shows up at Quinn’s door again, and Quinn admits that he is very lucky to have Kirill as a teammate.